


in step

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Episode: s01e06 FZZT, Ward x Simmons Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t want to hear that she’s clinging to childhood or using this as a substitute for her parents’ loving arms or that the rush of adrenaline was addictive and she’s now trying to recapture it. She doesn’t want to hear anything at all, she doesn’t even want to <i>think</i>, she wants to <i>do</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in step

**Author's Note:**

> While I started writing this ages and ages ago as part of a larger fic, I've pretty much abandoned all hope of finishing that and am posting this piece of it now for wardsimmonsdays' "dance" theme.

If Jemma were still stationed in a lab - well, if she were still stationed in a lab, this wouldn’t be happening at all - but _if she were_ , she would be forced to speak to a councilor about her near-death experience. Such a person would no doubt have any number of theories regarding the urge she feels the next morning and, despite the recent incident, Jemma is deeply grateful to be in the field and cut off from such people.

She doesn’t want to hear that she’s clinging to childhood or using this as a substitute for her parents’ loving arms or that the rush of adrenaline was addictive and she’s now trying to recapture it. She doesn’t want to hear anything at all, she doesn’t even want to _think_ , she wants to _do_.

She pulls on a pair of tights and a tank top, wraps a sweater around her waist for an added layer of modesty and ties her hair back in a tight bun, all before removing the small, dented cardboard box from the back of her sock drawer.

When she decided to bring her ballet slippers, it was a purely emotional decision and she knew it. They take up space that can’t really be spared in the Bus’ tight quarters and she almost never dances anymore (and how much call for ballet could there possibly be on a field team, really?) but now she’s glad of the decision.

She carries the box downstairs with her and takes a seat on Ward’s workout mat to lace on the shoes and stretch. The last time she wore them was the morning she and Fitz were to move onto the Bus. She woke up, much like today, buzzing with energy and knowing no amount of science or discovery could burn it off quickly enough. Of course that was excitement and this … this is something else. She’s well aware that the curtains in her bunk are tightly shut, that she took the back stairs down so she wouldn’t have to go past the open windows lining the lounge, and that at no point since she came down here has she looked directly at the massive doors. She’ll have to get over it eventually - she lives on a _plane_ , after all - but for the moment she’ll deal in her own way.

She steps off the cushy mat and into first position. No matter how long she goes between workouts, she always falls into the same routine when she comes back: a quick cycling through the positions to ensure her feet still know the way. Plié. Relevé. Again and again in each position until the muscles of her legs are pleasantly warm and itching for more. It’s the warm-up she first learned years ago, when her parents insisted she take some extracurricular that would force her into contact with children her own age while her studies had her moving further and further ahead.

She’s always thought the level area of the cargo bay between the lab and the cars perfect for across-the-rooms and indulges herself now. First a series of simple turns to keep herself in position and give her body an idea of the space she has to work in, and then a series of jumps.

Her mind catches up when she’s first suspended in midair, and there is a brief, sharp stab of fear. It’s gone again before she hits the ground. Whatever her mind might feel about her recent adventure, her body is finished with it. The fears of yesterday have slipped away. They’re still there, in whatever dark corner her conscious mind has retreated to, but with her body in control they seem smaller, less important. She moves back and forth, first small jumps to reacquaint herself with the skill and then bigger and higher until her legs and feet ache and her pulse is a drum in her ears.

A pale flash of movement catches her eye on a turn and she hits the ground wrong. Not so as to hurt herself, but technically wrong. She can hear her Madam Rolle chastising her even as she backs between Lola and the van.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ward says, holding up his hands as he descends the final stairs. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Desperate for something to do with her hands as she heads for the mat, she unties the sweater from her waist and uses it as a towel. She hasn’t sweat like this since … well, since yesterday.

“No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you like your morning workouts and I meant to be done-”

He catches her arm as she reaches for her box. His hand feels pleasantly cool against her flushed skin and for some reason she can’t seem to stop staring at it.

“I’m early,” he says, and it sounds like another apology. “Still too keyed up from yesterday, I guess.”

“Yes,” she agrees softly, looking down.

He lets her go and she curls her arm into her chest. Her pulse is slowing, each beat seeming more forceful now that there’s not the frenetic stream of them. She should go, run upstairs and shower and put her slippers away before anyone else can see her like this. Only she doesn’t _want_ to. She forgets how much she enjoys this when she overwhelms herself with science, and the thought of leaving it behind again for who knows how long is like … is like jumping out of a plane.

“You can keep going,” Ward says. There’s a twist to his voice she’s never heard before. It’s not exactly unkind, but it’s certainly not _kind_ either. She studies him carefully but sees only a slightly uneasy smile, like his face isn’t quite sure how to wear one. “There’s plenty of room for both of us and I know a good workout always helps me after…” He shrugs and takes a seat on the bench to wrap his hands.

He completely ignores her - or ignores her as much as a specialist is capable of ignoring someone standing only three feet away. If she leaves now it will only be because she’s running. Jemma Simmons is not a coward.

She steps off the mat and takes first position in front of the lab doors. She meets the eyes of her reflection in the window and lifts her arms to go into a series of fouetté turns, opening her leg each time she comes around to face herself again. Her legs are sore and her arms burn but she keeps going, forcing herself to do more every time she stops to regain her lost balance.

She keeps going and going until finally, when she comes around she sees not the pale reflection of her face but the grey of Ward’s t-shirt. He uses her shock to press his advantage and catches her up under her arms. One hand he holds to the side of her ribs and the other he slides along her arm to her still-extended hand.

“I’m not that kind of a dancer,” she says, her lungs heaving from the exertion.

“You sure?” he asks, tightening the distance between them until she has to control her breathing or allow her breasts to brush against his chest with every draw of air. She opens her mouth to say that yes, she is very sure she studied ballet, not ballroom, but he doesn’t let her get a word in. “Dancing - this kind, anyway - is all about following the guy’s lead. If you’ve got any grace at all, you can pull it off.”

It‘s only his hold on her that keeps her from stumbling back in shock. Brave and graceful. Two compliments in as many days from stoic Grant Ward. Skye would have a stroke if she heard.

“And,” he adds, “it’s a good skill to have in field work. You never know when you have to attend a ritzy party.”

Ward has obviously not seen her field examiner’s report on her dissemination skills. It is rather disastrous when she tries to lie.

“I sincerely doubt that Coulson would ever-”

“You never know,” Ward says, his grip on her growing a little firmer. “Now let’s see what you’ve got.” He takes a miniscule step back, putting the proper amount of space between them, and straightens up. “Er…” It’s apparently taken him this long to realize that their height discrepancy is even greater than normal with her in ballet slippers.

She sighs. “Oh, here.” She goes up en pointe. She’s still shorter than him, but not so as to make this more awkward than it needs to be.

“I’m not sure that’ll work.”

She places her hand - the one he hasn’t been holding for the last few minutes - on his shoulder. “Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?”

The smile he gives her reminds her of his earlier tone but she doesn’t have time to wonder over it. He’s moving and she’s forced to either follow or drag behind. There’s no music but she’s been counting in her head all morning and it’s easy enough to find his beat.

He was right, it is awkward up on her toes and more than once he has to slide his hand around her back to hold her, but it’s also fun. This isn’t the mindless play of muscles she went through before. It’s different having her body follow Ward’s, taking her cues from him but also not following when she doesn‘t want to. The second time he tries to take her into a series of turns, she slips under his arms and crosses the bay with her own fouetté turns. He runs after her, a smile on his face, and she lets him catch her.

It’s like lab work, she realizes as they fall back into the dance. It’s like working with Fitz, throwing ideas back and forth, feeding off one another’s thought processes. Only this isn’t about thought, it’s about the subtle changes and adjustments between their bodies. While she follows where he leads, she learns that if she twists in this way or that, Ward will adjust around her, like a stream moving around a rock.

Her feet are getting tired and her toes are especially unhappy, having grown weak after so long out of practice. She drops down, catching herself on his arm with a laugh.

“That was good,” he says as he walks her over to the mat. She would like to say she doesn’t need the help, but she’s afraid she might be wrong. “Just get you some heels and you’d do fine.”

“Oh no,” she says as she sits. “I do not think so.” She considers waiting until she gets upstairs to take off her shoes - she’s almost definitely bleeding - but then remembers that this is Ward. Of all the people on the Bus, he’s the least likely to be horrified, and besides, the lab is right there. It’ll be easier to clean herself up down here than it would be in the tiny bathroom upstairs.

“Come on,” he laughs, “the only person you can dance with right now without it looking silly is Fitz and I doubt he can-”

“Fitz can _not_ dance,” Jemma confirms, laughing herself. It is truly painful to watch when he tries.

Ward’s smile disappears as she pulls the first shoe off. Yes, definitely bleeding, though not as badly as she has in the past.

“Ouch,” he says in sympathy.

“Quite,” she agrees. She probably should have done this in the lab, since now she’ll be tracking blood across the cargo bay.

He squats down beside her. “Let me,” he says and before she can answer or even think what he’s doing, she’s in his arms just the way she was yesterday. Only this time there’s solid ground - well, the floor of the plane - beneath his feet instead of empty air.

He settles her on one of the stools and leaves her to watch in amusement as he gathers gauze and antiseptic.

“Are you the team medic now?” She pulls her foot up onto the stool to begin unlacing the other shoe.

“Well, if you’re gonna be going into the field,” he says as he returns. He pulls another stool close and pats his knee. She obligingly lifts her already unclothed foot into his lap.

The cool air of the lab soothes the raw pain and she feels his warm hands on her foot more than the swipe of the gauze over her toes. She remembers his grip on her arm when he first caught her out there and how all her awareness seemed to zero in on the one point of contact.

“I can do that, you know,” she says abruptly. A flush creeps up her neck - or was it already creeping? - and she hugs her bent leg tighter. “I’m sure you want to get to your workout.”

He smiles at her from under his brows and grabs the tube of liquid bandage off the table. “Got a good workout in already. Blood’s pumping, muscles are warmed up.”

It’s a completely innocent statement and there’s nothing in his tone or demeanor that should make it anything else, but it makes her muscles clench all the same.

If she were in a lab - again, this would not be happening - but if she were and were forced to see a councilor, such a person would probably tell her that she’s developed an attachment to the man who saved her life. She reminds this imaginary person that _Fitz_ saved her life as well and she didn’t have any trouble around him last night.

And then she reminds herself that the entire point in thinking of her imaginary councilor was to remind herself that this is completely normal and will pass.

Still, after he’s carefully wrapped her wounded toes and reaches for the other foot, she gives it to him readily. No reason not to enjoy her short-term foray into insanity while it lasts.

Attachment or not, it doesn’t stop her from inspecting his work once finished and - reluctantly - pronouncing it “good enough.”

He only smiles.

 


End file.
